Wood-stove
Rosemary, and
A faded sprig of holly,
Tucked to the soft curls tossed across my face.
You skipped across the wooden floor, and
listening to
The crackle of fire,
You knelt.
I heard you there –
Slow breaths,
A muffled hint of jostling,
Concealed beneath your sighs.
A vision of the sleet,
Flitting across my sky,
And strewing a blind flurry that
Was written on your next blank page.
I saw your expression melt;
It slipped into the coma of myriad pains.
Your features now unblended,
With neat creases –
Like the folds forgotten
To be unfolded when the iron was slid across.
The only warmth we felt came from your
wood-stove.
The rattling of your silver pot,
An uncertainty in its whistling,
The last trickle of the remedy now
Mere ashes.
To think it knew better than I do
Where the road turned.
After it all,
You could only impart the simmering wisdom
To my wood-stove.
Krithika Venkataraman '15
